


Running [Home]

by Ohmygodfeels



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A lot of bad words, Actor Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Awkward meet-cute, Blood, Blood and Injury, Break Up, But I just wanted to get this out there, College Student Stiles Stilinski, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I could be bullied to write more, Is this how tagging works?, Journalist Stiles Stilinski, M/M, No beta reader, Non-Linear Narrative, Tony Stark Has A Heart, WIP, and run on sentences, chaotic energy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27209860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohmygodfeels/pseuds/Ohmygodfeels
Summary: That night it was raining.Because that's how this goes, right?It was pushing on 2 am, and the city was oddly quiet—due majorly towards the downpour that was currently drowning the small island of Manhattan. Anyone who had an ounce of intelligence, and extra cash, was calling a cab right about now. It was stubbornness at this point, keeping him from calling a cab himself. That, and he spent his last few dollars on a cup of coffee-- now more of a soggy caffeinated puddle in his hands then the blessed warmth that it had lent him moments ago.It was in this limbo of thought space that the noise of heavy footfalls and the splashing of puddles reverberated around the vacant street he walked on, refocusing Stiles on the present situation: He was very much alone. And very much lost, if the dimly lit street sign he just passed was any indication. Manhattan was a grid system, his ass. Wonderful.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Kudos: 15
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	Running [Home]

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this... a long time ago. And even have the entire thing outlined but... I struggle. And writing is HARD. But, I want to be more couragous and break out of my writing shell so... have a WIP. This idea came from someone telling me "write what you know!" and well, I know theatre intimately. 
> 
> I am open to critics and bullying if anyone is even interested in this, but I honestly just want to take a step forward in my writing adventures and this is what I compromised with.  
> Not beta'd so every little mistake (which there will be) are all mine! :D
> 
> **PLEASE READ IF NOTHING ELSE:**  
>  This story is outlined and I didn't want to post JUST the things I actually fleshed out, so I will be posting the brief descriptions that happen in each "Scene" as well to give context clues. If this is confusing... I'm sorry. Its non-linear because of Aesthetics and nothing more. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> * * *

###  Scene 1- Tony Awards

  
Stiles siting in a car, viewing the photographers at the Tony Awards. Commiserating how he got there. Feeling antsy and unprepared. Dreading what is about to happen.  
  


###  Scene 2- NYC Is Dangerous

  
“… and then I told him that he needed to check again, and lo and beyond I was right! I told you Dad, the customer is always right is a myt-“

“How is school going Stiles?” His father cut in through the mouth full of food Stiles was speaking around, leaving him gaping at the sudden change in conversation. Stiles struggled to reconcile the change, and swallowed roughly, holding his fork precariously over the edge of his plate.

“Um, good. Yeah, yeah school is great!” Stiles picked up in speed, confident in the current topic now that he had a moment to process the direction, “Some of my professors are pushing me to take their classes next year, but I keep telling them I have a plan in place alr-“

“And what are those plans exactly?” The sheriff cut in again, lifting a fork full of peas from his plate and grimacing as he took the bite. Stiles blinked sluggishly at his father across the table, not used to the interruptions during his tirades.

“Well… you know, psychology and, what not. Graduation. Woo.” Stiles stilted through, bewildered by the inquiry since his father was the person that wanted him to go to Stanford for psychology.

“Really? And that’s it? Nothing else?” The sheriff raised an eyebrow, picking up his cup this time to take a long sip of his drink. At the accusatory tone Stiles leaned back in his chair, placing his fork down on the plate. The sheriff wasn’t stupid, and Stiles sighed internally for thinking that his father wouldn’t figure it out.

At Stiles’ body change, the sheriff put his own fork down and scrapped his chair back slightly to be able to recline more easily. The sheriff stared at Stiles for a moment before finally breaking the silence with a fat thunking sound as a large white envelope stared accusingly between the Stilinski’s.

Stiles closed his eyes and sighed, his leg beginning to jiggle in anxiety. “Look, dad-“ He cut himself off this time, opening his eyes and staring at his fathers expected expression, hoping that his father would interrupt him again but no such luck.

“Dad I was going to tell you.” Both his dad’s eyebrows arched up at this and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“When? When you needed a ride to the airport?”

“I wasn’t even sure I was going to get it!” Stiles knew it was a flimsy excuse, and by the eyebrows still arched high on his face, his father saw straight through this as well. Trying another tactic, Stiles leaned over the table, pushing his plate away as he did and set his elbows gently against the wood.

“I didn’t know if I would take it,” Stiles grabbed the envelope and pulled it towards him, the seal of the folder still holding firm and his name printed neatly underneath the “Columbia University” seal.

“Have you opened this?” Stiles asked uselessly, already tearing at the glued seam, but needing to be sure. His father relaxed slightly, placing one hand back on the table as well, grabbing his drink and spinning it absently before shaking his head at the question.

Stiles carefully brought the envelope towards himself and tore across the seal, pulling out the stock of pages enclosed. The first page was a crisp egg white on thick, expensive paper. The first sentence made swallowing difficult and Stiles placed the stack of papers upside down back on the table without reading any more.

The heavy sigh caught his attention as Stiles snapped his eyes to look at his father again, their eyes meeting across the table for the first time. Let it not be said that Stilinski’s don’t communicate their problems. The two men became adept quickly in reading body language when Claudia was in the hospital, secrets left unsaid, prognosis left floating in the ether. This was no different.

Each eyebrow lift, purse of the lips, tug of the inside of a cheek, scratch of an ear— things might never have been said in words, but both men knew what the other had said. As Stiles straightened in his chair, hands pulled back and laying casually on the table, the sheriff nodded his head.

“You know it’s dangerous right? The city is not like L.A. or San Diego. It’s a whole new world.” The Sheriffs words, though spoken quietly, shattered through the room. Stiles nodded cautiously, still keeping eye contact with his father. The sheriff nodded back before smirking gently, “Plus, you know it gets cold, right?”

The smirk pulled at Stiles mouth, mirroring the man in front of him. Casually shrugging again, Stiles picked up his discarded fork and began to poke playfully at his food.

“Eh, I’ve always said I’m more like an abominable snowman anyways.” Stiles winked slyly, making his dad roll his eyes in response and picked up his own fork.

Silence stretched once again, the uncomfortably missing from this and leading compassion through the strands of time.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” His father seemed to grimace a smile at that but nodded none the less. Reaching across, Stiles placed his hand near his father’s own causing the man to look up again. “Really. I didn’t mean... you know. And I’ll come back and visit. I promise.” His father’s smile grew real then, and he nodded, knocking his knuckles against Stiles’ outstretched hand.

“I know you’ll try, Kid.” Stiles wanted to argue with that word choice but let it go, sliding his hand back and pulling his plate back to himself.

“Come on Dad! Think of it this way, what’s the WORST that could happen, hm?” Stiles joked, shoving a mouth full of mashed potatoes in his mouth. He grinned around the large bite of food and dodged the spoon full of peas his father sent his way.  


###  Scene 3- Meet Cute

  
Stiles was fucked.

He was screwed and he blamed it all on his father’s big mouth. No, he takes that back. He blames Lydia Martin. If not for Lydia Martin then none of this would have happened. If Lydia hadn’t walked into his life in 3rd grade, then his massive adoration for the fiery ginger wouldn’t have formed—which in turn would mean that the many awkward years that followed wouldn’t have happened.

Granted, not knowing Lydia would be the greatest regret Stiles could conceive, after all she had become one of his best friends and also helped illuminate the not-so-straight part of his psyche. But if he hadn’t met her, then the soul crushing competition between them wouldn’t exist thus the transfer to a prestigious University in NYC wouldn’t have happened and he **would not be in this situation.**

All he wanted to do was make it to his studio apartment on 57th and 5th. He had spent too long on a crowded subway car and the 10-minute walk to his 3rd story walk-up was just the icing on the This-Is-All-Lydia-Martin’s-Fault cake he was sure to make. Especially when paired with his newly formed pledge to “never again leave his sparsely furnished apartment” due to “his body slowly decomposing from having died of humiliation” was underway. All of this could have been avoided if not for Lydia Martin. But he digresses.

Okay, so maybe he blames his Professor more than Lydia. Because what kind of professor assigns a test the day AFTER syllabus day? And not even a test ON the syllabus. But an actual “pass or fail”, “make or break” Stiles test. An asshole professor-- that's who. And that was why he was carrying his weight in textbooks in his backpack now—knowledge really was a heavy burden. Stiles' point in all this was, adamantly: It. Was. Not. His. Fault.

That night it was raining. _Because that's how this goes, right?_ It was pushing on 2 am, and the city was oddly quiet—due majorly towards the downpour that was currently drowning the small island of Manhattan. Anyone who had an ounce of intelligence, and extra cash, was calling a cab right about now. It was stubbornness at this point, keeping him from calling a cab himself. That, and he spent his last few dollars on a cup of coffee-- now more of a soggy caffeinated puddle in his hands then the blessed warmth that it had lent him moments ago.

His red hood was clinging to his head, making it more of a hassle than a shield, and his backpack felt more like a baby manatee then higher learning. His pants were falling down, his hair was going straight into his eyes, and his socks would be soggy if he had remembered to wear any today-- and that says a lot about himself, that even though he is the definition of misery at the moment, his thoughts were stuck on the Olympic size pool his toes were wiggling in.

It was in this limbo of thought space that the noise of heavy footfalls and the splashing of puddles reverberated around the vacant street he walked on, refocusing Stiles on the present situation: He was very much alone. And very much lost, if the dimly lit street sign he just passed, while throwing his mess of a coffee cup away, was correct. Manhattan was a grid system, his ass. Wonderful.

_“It’s dangerous Stiles!”_ His father’s words on the city cut through his thoughts as he continued. _“You’re going to get hurt. Look at these cases Stiles! And these are just from a small town!”_  


He **had** seen the files, the cold cases, the reports of innocents not being saved in time. As the footfalls quickened in pace, so did Stiles’ heartbeat. After all, it's 2 o’clock in the morning, who else would be crazy enough to be out here in the rain? They must have seen Stiles walk down this street. Notice the Columbia logos on the chain hanging around his backpack. Seen how out of focused Stiles was. Easy prey.

Stiles quickened his walk, still wary about slipping on the slick sidewalk, as he reached back to the side pocket of his backpack. His hands moved erratically, heartbeat racing faster as he blindly felt around. His brain worked in over time thinking back to which pocket his pepper spray was in, before slamming to a sudden stop as he remembered: Rushing frantically in his apartment early this morning, turning his backpack over to dump out clothes and miscellaneous other items to make room for his textbooks—the pepper spray can lying at the bottom of the pile, forgotten on his bed. Fuck.

The footfalls were closer now, gaining on him as they lengthened into a steady jog. He needs another plan. Stiles wouldn't be able to run in a monsoon like this-- he would fall on his ass from one step to the next. His phone, which was gripped tightly in his palm, was dead-- luckily and unluckily. If it had been alive, he would have had his headphones in and been in a worse situation, but now there wasn't anyone he could call for help. He could try to take them out physically, but what if they had a weapon? Stiles didn't think he could fight off a gun.

His attacker was close enough now that Stiles could hear their harsh breathing. _He doesn't have much more time._ Darting a quick view ahead, Stiles thankfully spies a small alleyway but quickly decides that running into the alley would be more of a hassle then a sanctuary- especially if it’s a dead end. Just as Stiles was nearing the alleyway, a thought popped into his head. It was incredibly stupid, but possibly the only chance Stiles has. Maybe he could turn off quickly and lose them? No, if they followed him this far, they would undoubtedly pursue him there too and there was a big chance that the alley leads to a dead-end. Wait, his backpack! If he times this right, he could definitely get away with the least amount of damage to his own physical being-- hopefully.

He pushes his cell phone roughly into his sodden jacket pocket before sliding one of his backpack straps down off his shoulder to have a better grip on the wet bundle. Swiftly slipping behind the edge of the alley wall, Stiles takes a deep breath and holds it, listening intently to the sounds behind the wall. The attacker was almost to him; a metallic grate Stiles remembered walking across springing loudly under the attackers’ gate. Stiles’ heartbeat slammed in his ears, throbbing against his temples as he gripped his backpack tighter in both hands, it's straps digging into his fingers... waiting.... waiting.

Between one of the attacker’s breaths and the next, Stiles swings his backpack around the corner-- grunting from the exertion and the heavy impact of his textbooks meeting a moving force. Stiles couldn't help but do a little fist punch dance in the air for his amazing aim as he pushes off the corner, hurriedly rounding it to get back on the street.

His attacker was sprawled on the wet concrete, Stiles’ backpack sat on the man’s abdomen as they hefted out a couple of painful sounding wheezes. The sounds struck a chord with Stiles’ consciousness, but his fight or flight response was leaning too much on flight to care about the guilt at the moment. Stiles’ muscles bunched in on themselves as he turned to run, his body already remembering the suicides he was forced to do in high school. But before the endorphins could spark through his body, something caught his eye. Were those reflective shorts? Is that a pair of headphones next to that cell phone in that puddle?

The life-saving backpack was quickly flung to the side, smacking into the brick building Stiles was just hiding behind. The man struggled to sit up, holding a hand up to his nose as a dark substance dripped down. The attacker was well built; his attire consisted of a pair of loose reflective shorts and a gray tank that clung to his form—more from the rain than exertion it seemed. His dark hair drooped over intense green (blue?) eyes that glared towards Stiles’ backpack. He was gorgeous really— in a terrifying, five o’clock shadow, biker gang kind of way.

“What the fuck?” The grunt that came from the man was in a higher tone than Stiles would have assumed compared to this mans rugged features but didn’t hide the icy gruffness of anger.

“Uhh…” Stiles stammered, frozen in place by either shock or the chill that came with the rain. The man turned abruptly to face Stiles, his burning glare washing the chill away with a fiery embarrassment that ate along his cheeks and down his neck.

“Uh… Sorry?” The man’s face seemed to become more enraged as Stiles spoke, and he couldn’t blame him. What kind of a response was that?

“You’re… sorry?” The icy tone was slightly distorted from having Mr. not-attacker-but-might-kill-Stiles-anyways fingers pinching his bleeding nose delicately, and Stiles could only wish that the man directed that look back towards his backpack so his body could cool down. His mouth opened to try to formulate a more eloquent response, but he was just left with it hanging agape.

The man began to slowly stand, still holding his bleeding nose, and grunting as he wrapped his other arm around his abdomen. Stiles would look back at this moment and wonder what the hell happened for his mind to finally reboot, allowing Stiles’ gaping mouth to finally form words, as the man’s hand stretched out to balance himself along the brick wall.  


“Holy shit, dude! I am so fucking sorry! I completely misinterpreted the situation. I thought, you know, a guy like me walking home alone. And I didn’t know you were running. Which of course you were running. Why would you be out here not running? Actually, that doesn’t make any sense either. Why were you out here running? I mean, don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. But of course, if you wanted to tell me you could, ‘cause I feel terrible about what I did. But come on, can you blame me? I mean, I probably should’ve just thrown one book at you instead of the entire library. Or, I mean, I shouldn’t have thrown anything. Oh fuck, you’re bleeding. I get nosebleeds too sometimes. I mean its not the same thing—mine is brought on by the allergies I hold to a specific pollen in California. Have you seen how big Sequoias’ get? I mean, I’m not saying it’s the trees fault, cause how badass are those giants but-- ”

“Shut. Up.” Stiles’ mouth snapped closed at the sudden clipped timbre. Running man continued to struggle against the wall, fighting to try and stay upright it seemed. It didn’t help that his neon glowing running shoes were slipping precariously on some old decimated newspapers.

“Look,” Stiles tries again, and inwardly cringed as the man closed his eyes in apparent distrust of his words already, “Let me help you? I honestly feel terrible.” He pushed as much sincerity as his sarcastic, dumbass mouth could articulate and took a step towards the man.

He was met with that multicolored glare again, but, Stiles noted, it was more of a heated forest fire this time, instead of the mouth of Hell. Progress.

They stood there like that for what seemed like hours in the pouring rain—staring at each other. Blood from the man’s nose steadily dripping over his hand and into that dark beard. Stiles tried to look anywhere but at how the man’s jaw line cut nicely across his face, or how his chest continued to hiccup with attempts to get a steadier breathe in.

Stiles walked over slowly and kneeled to pick up the man’s belongings. Stiles watching the man carefully as he stretched his hand out revealing the phone and headphones that the man had dropped in a silent surrender.

“Well?” Rain weighed him down and made shuffling his feet impossible. The cut of the silence seemed to steal the man as he finally caught his balance and raised an impressive eyebrow towards Stiles.

“Are you fucking serious?” Stiles had to strain to hear the man as the rain began to pick up, but it didn’t lessen the hot rage that was being spit at him. Stiles gripped the man’s belongings tighter in his palm as fear laced with that familiar stubbornness, boiled under Stiles skin.

“Yes. I want to make this ri-“

“Stop.” The man interrupted once again, making Stiles snap his jaw closed, clenching his teeth against any remark. “That’s not how this works.” The man stepped towards him, all broad shoulders, and flexing biceps.

Stiles took a step back, “… And how does this work?” He asked, wishing for the first time that he had run instead of stayed. The man took another step forward and Stiles lost another back.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.” Stiles cautioned delicately, holding his hands up to block the confrontation. The steal in the man’s eyes sharpened at the movement.

“You should’ve thought of that before you attacked me.” He gestured again, but stopped his forward momentum, squaring his shoulders. Stiles rolled his eyes, surreptitiously looking for a possible escape option.

“I didn’t attack you. I thought you—“

“You broke my nose!” The man’s voice rose above the aggressive monotone and became dangerously close to yelling. Stiles wasn’t good with yelling.

“You don’t have to be an ass. Look I said I was sorry and that I felt bad, okay? What more do you want from me?” Stiles snapped, stepping forward and gaining the upper hand as the man, eyes wide in seeming shock, took a step back.

Growling, the man gestured with his outstretched hand to his face, “Preferably for you to not have broken my nose.”

They were both glaring at each other at this point, and this wasn’t going anywhere good—especially for Stiles. That is until the man sighed, closing his eyes and—counting? Was he really counting right now?

The man opened his eyes again, taking his hand down away from his nose—Stiles noticing that the bleeding had slowed immensely in the time they had been standing there—and just as abruptly turned around, walking away from Stiles.

“Hey! Hey wait! What the hell!” Stiles yelled after him, slipping in his hurry to catch up with the guy.

“Fuck, okay, look!” Reaching out, Stiles grabbed the upper arm of the man—and quickly regretted that decision as his back was slammed roughly against a brick wall and an arm was pressed forcefully along his sternum.

Air escaped him, reaching up he began patting at the man’s arm, kicking pathetically out as he tried to gain the upper hand—his father had paid for all those self-defense classes, where were those reflexes?

Stiles stopped struggling as the man’s face came into focus, the stillness causing the man to lessen his hold against him.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” He snarled, “This is how this is going to work, kid. Are you listening?” Stiles nodded quickly, after the man jostled him slightly, tears prickling his eyes at the pain of not being able to expand his chest grew.

“I am going my own way. And you go yours. Let’s call this an… unhappy encounter that will never be repeated.” The man pushed back roughly, causing Stiles to go into a coughing fit as his chest was able to expand fully again.

“If I see you again, my lawyers get involved. Got it?” Stiles fell to his knees, rubbing soothing circles against his chest to alleviate the past pressure. Stiles nodded in understanding, before quickly flinching backwards as the man’s hands appeared in front of him again. But the adrenaline was short lived as running man quickly picked up his cell and headphones which had been dropped during the confrontation, before backing off once again.

As soon as the man’s shoes weren’t in Stiles’ line of sight, Stiles dared to move, leaning painfully back against the brick wall. He glanced over to the side, reaching sluggishly to grab his own dropped phone, before turning to watch as the man limped away and finally disappearing around a corner.

_Welcome to New York._  


###  Scene 3.5- This Isn't My Phone

  
Realizing the phone Stiles has was NOT his. He texted/called Derek to make a plan to swap the phone. It is Saturday (two show day for Derek) and Stiles has to go to the Stage Door and into the backstage area to actually give Derek his phone back.  
Stiles is lead through the backstage of a Broadway House and its confused and bewildered by what is happening.  
Stiles is late? So he see’s Derek’s entrance into the stage and just leaves the phone in his dressing room.  


###  Scene 4- First Fight (Chemistry)

  
First fight with Derek and Stiles as a couple. Just after one of Derek’s shows, where Stiles meets him at the Stage Door where Derek is hugging on his co-actresses and Stiles gets jealous.  
Stiles starts being monosyllabic and Derek catches on. When they get home OR in the car, they start arguing about Derek’s relationship.  


_“I saw the chemistry between you two Derek! That doesn’t just come out of nowhere!”  
“You’re right Stiles. It doesn’t. We have to rehearse MONTHS in advance to have the chemistry Allison and I have on stage! There is nothing going on! It’s just my job!”_

###  Scene 5- Class (“Safe” and "Home")

  
Stiles goes to class on the Monday **after** giving Derek his phone back. He’s in one of his Language and Mind classes (Philosophy of Language) discussing the different meaning behind the word “safe” and the opinions and feelings established with it, when Stiles receives a text from Derek OR Stiles texts Derek.  


_“How ‘safe’ can the word ‘safe’ be exactly?”  
“Are you high?”  
“Does an energy high count?”  
“With you? Probably.”_

###  Scene 6- Invitation

  
The door stuck, as it always did, as Stiles jimmied the keys in the lock. He did not need this right now. Frustration growing, Stiles slammed his body into his door, releasing it from its hold and throwing it open.

Exasperated, Stiles huffed out a breath and tried to replace the excess adrenaline by throwing his messenger bag across his studio and watched it plunked neatly on his bed. That’s not what he needed either.

Sighing once again, Stiles closed his door before making his way to his small dinette table and roughly sitting down, pushing his hands in his hair as he focused on his breathing.

He wasn’t doing okay. Every day was harder than the next and the tediousness of Journalism was suffocating him. If he had to sit through one more lecture on Dualism and self-idealism he was going to scream. He knew intimately how word choices could affect someone, how using the word “captivate” held a different connotation then “captive”.

How soft words and gentle touches could all be a lie.

Something glittering in his peripheral caught his attention, pulling him out of the spiral he was beginning to succumb to. Lifting his head, he turned to find the cause and stared in confusion at the growing pile of mail by his door.

The chair screeched unpleasantly as he got up and walked over to the pile, gingerly picking it up and sorting through it.

_Junk. Junk. Junk. Coupons. Junk._ And right at the bottom, lined with an iridescent gold band, was a heavy envelope of a letter.

Flipping it over, he confirmed that it was addressed to him before making his way back to his table to drop the other mail. His thumb delicately rubbed over the fine details of the egg white letter. Gold rimmed, black typed cursive font, and right on the top center of the letter a small raised crest.

Bringing the letter closer to his face, Stiles squinted down at the crest attempting to understand who this letter was from.

Recognition sparked through Stiles and he dropped the letter on the table and backed away: the words “Antoinette Perry Awards” mocking him from the distance.

He couldn’t have. Why would he receive this? What was Derek thinking sending this to him? He couldn’t honestly believe that Stiles would go to the Tony’s with him, did he? Was this an apology though? Was this their second chance? Did Derek hope to reunite their... whatever they were?

Stiles looks down longingly at the letter and pushed himself back to it, lifting it up and placing his thumb under the flap on the back but right as he was about to rip open the obviously expensive letter he stopped.

Did Derek seriously think this would make things better? Invite Stiles to an award show he would have no way of getting into alone? Another pity gesture? Another way to burrow under Stiles skin and make him believe things that weren’t real. Derek was a Tony Nominated Actor for a reason.

Snarling, Stiles threw the letter, unopened, back down on the table and stared down at it aggressively, breathing heavily.

If Derek thought that this was a kind gesture, he was sorely mistaken. How dare he assume that Stiles couldn’t get in by his merit alone. Let alone mocking the fact Stiles was still a poor ass university student.

Well Derek can just suck it. And he can assume what he wants, because Stiles WOULD go to the Tony’s, but not on Derek’s arm, nor on his charity.

Grabbing his jacket, he had thrown off just moments ago, Stiles ripped open the stuck door once again and stomped out of his apartment. Head down and focused on his current mission.

The letter laying heavily on the table and his mind.  


###  Scene 7- Second Date (Movies)

  
Derek and Stiles go on their second date.  
Decide to go to the movies. Hold hands, smile at each other, (possibly end up with mutual handjobs?), maybe end up meeting a fan and Derek asking if Stiles is okay with pictures?  


###  Scene 8- Stiles Goes To The Theater

  
Stiles gets tickets to Derek’s show. This is a couple of months after they have been texting each other and Stiles shows interest in seeing Derek. (Have not gone on a real date yet)  
Receives comp tickets close to the front and watches Derek. Is mesmerized by not only Derek but theatre (had only ever seen community theatre).  
Derek meets him after the show asking him how he liked it. 

###  Scene 9- Second Fight (Time)

  
Stiles and Derek’s second fight. This is after leaving a dinner that did NOT go well. Stiles is in exam week, Derek is in brush up/put in rehearsals and they forced to make time for each other. Neither are in a good mood and you can tell.  


_“You’re never fucking there for me Derek!”  
“I’m in rehearsals Stiles! You know this!”  
“At all hours of the day/night?!”  
“Yes!”  
“Mmmhm. Yeah. Sure.”_

###  Scene 10- First Date

  
Derek and Stiles finally go on a first date. Derek picks Stiles up and they go to a fancy restaurant where Stiles doesn’t know any of the menu items. Stiles struggles through until Derek just… tells him to get up. They end up walking down the block to Lucky’s Burgers and getting a burger and fry. Sharing a milkshake. Derek brings Stiles home and kisses him goodnight. It’s one of the best nights Stiles can remember.  


###  Scene 11- Dance Club

  
Stiles is dancing in the middle of the dance floor. Grating on people with a drink in his hand. He is slightly tipsy, and as bodies start to swirl around him, he starts to remember coming to the club with Derek. Sees him at the bar, sees him request a song, sees him motioning Stiles over, feels him dance against him.

Stiles comes to with someone dancing on him and Stiles realizes how easy it would be just to delve into this man behind him. Just give in and let this guy take him into the bathroom. God knows what Derek is doing right now without him anyways. Ends up pushing the guy away and going outside to get some air. 

See’s 7 missed texts:  
_“I miss you.”  
“This director is an ass.”  
“New script pages again.”  
“We broke early. Want me to come over?”  
“Haven’t heard from you. Guess you’re in a study hole.”  
“Let me know your schedule for the week. Want to get dinner?”  
“I hope you’re doing okay. Come up for air soon. Get some sleep. Early morning tomorrow so talk to you later. Night Stiles.”_  


###  Scene 12- The Break Up

  
Derek and Stiles have been together for about 6 months. They have been on and off dates throughout dependent on each other’s schedule and it’s not working any more. The strain of rehearsals and Stiles not understanding theatre is weighing them down.

Stiles ends up telling Derek off. And leaving him? OR Derek ends up saying it’s not working for my image. OR Stiles removing himself as a distraction from Derek’s life.

_“I’m not one of your god damn course papers Stiles! Stop psycho-analyzing me!”_

###  Scene 13- Tony Awards

  
Stiles see's the invitation again on his table and shakes himself off. He grabs the Journalism badge he has to go to the Tony’s and walks out the door, leaving the invitation behind. When he gets to the Tony’s we see him see the photographers again, but he gets out of the car immediately. Not too much focus on the photographers. When he gets there, he is lead inside where the other Journalists are.

As he is interviewing someone (read: actor) he sees Derek make his way to the Journalist area and they make contact. Derek comes over and interrupts Stiles interview (Stiles is bitter and doesn’t completely allow it until it starts to get awkward) and they go into a secluded area to talk. End up a mutual break up.

_“We both live two completely lives. We knew this would happen eventually.”_  


###  Scene 14- Third Date and NSFW

  
They go back to Derek’s place. It’s the first time Stiles has seen it. They get a drink and Stiles looks out the window. This leads to sex. VERY soft, and loving, and slow. The word “safe” might be brought in. “Home” or “passion” or “soft”. The word that started it all from Stiles’ first class.

The look between them as they move together is anything but a simple fling. There is more chemistry between this one eye contact then could ever be on stage.  


###  Scene 15- Back to Scene 1 (Tony Awards)

Stiles is still watching the photographers at the Tony Awards. His heart continuing to race, until a hand grasps a hold of his. He turns, and there is a smiling Derek.  
We learn that it is 2 years later, and Derek and Stiles worked their issues out. Derek is up for another Tony award and he wins this one. He thanks Stiles in his speech, and they smile at each other across the crowd.

Stiles smiles, knowing that he is “safe” and he is “home”.


End file.
